


Fourth Herring

by Grondfic



Category: Five Red Herrings - Sayers, Lord Peter Wimsey - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Uncategorized fandoms - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-23
Updated: 2010-04-23
Packaged: 2017-10-09 02:49:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 14,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/82221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grondfic/pseuds/Grondfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story takes place during the Autumn following the events of <i>Five Red Herrings</i>. the year is probably 1930.</p><p>PC Charlie Duncan, in the process of pulling his career together, also helps someone else to kick-start theirs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Title: Fourth Herring  
Fandom**: _Five Red Herrings_ by Dorothy L Sayers  
**Characters**: Mrs Smith-Lemesurier, PC Charlie Duncan, Jock Graham  
**Rating**: Harmless  
**Warnings**: None  
**Disclaimer**: The characters belong to whoever owns Sayers' copyright. I make no money. This is _homage_. Don't sue!

* * * *

Two hearts were wrung – though for very different reasons – on Mr Jock Graham's account following the cataclysmic events That Summer in the Stewartry.

Mrs Smith-Lemesurier sat inconsolable in her tiny cottage in Newton Stewart, alternatively plotting Dire Revenge; and casting rueful glances at her ever-diminishing bank-balance, wondering if it would run to an over-wintering somewhere well-known for its proliferation of elderly, wealthy male invalids – Venice, say; or Baden-Baden. The French maid had, only that morning, given notice and decamped to Glasgow with a gentleman from the second-hand motor trade.

Elsewhere PC Charlie Duncan – in the doghouse with his Sergeant, and under threat of a wigging from no less a personage than Inspector Macpherson of Kirkcudbright – reflected resentfully that his pet theory might easily have been correct! Mister Graham with his known criminal connections, his devil-may-care manner, and his magnetic blue gaze, had such a shameless disrespect for the law (_and for a Constable's uniform_; thought Charlie wrathfully), that his name might surely be the first to spring to mind when a murder was committed!

However, the painting communities of Kirkcudbright and Gatehouse had been left in such an uproar after Lord Peter Wimsey's departure that Charlie's own personal collieshangie had been largely forgotten by everyone except himself.

So Charlie did what he'd always done – taken out the change on any opponents unlucky enough to encounter the _Lads'o'Gatehouse_ Rugby Team (of which he was a leading light); and sought balm for his soul in his off-duty time near the dams on the Fleet River (where the fishing was free), with the aid of his Auld Feyther's rod and creel.

Today was, however, hardly conducive to solace. A fine misty rain, wafting gently from the west, developed rapidly into a full-blown squall. Charlie thanked his stars for his stout (albeit second-hand) burberry, and waterproof waders. It was some consolation, also, that the adverse weather brought several plump trout leaping to his line. Maw would be pleased at the extra provisions!

He rapped the gasping fish smartly against a convenient boulder, creeled them, and leaned against the stalwart bole of an ancient oak whilst he debated whether to call it a day and retreat home for some of Maw's matchless cocoa; or try for more trout which Maw could sell – backdoor-wise – to the Anwoth.

A cry – as of a dying swan, or gamekeeper-shotten migratory goose – smote his ears. Charlie – a local, born and bred – was not deceived. This was a fellow-human in distress! Like a mother-eagle, he instantly shouldered the creel and plunged though the wooded river-banks towards the source of the sound.

* * * *

Jock Graham swore creatively. He'd succeeded in filling his waders and – over-heavy in the hinder-parts with rain water and the encroaching stream – had fallen heavily into the river. Now the undertow had dragged him some hundred yards downstream. His rod was lost; and Jock – bereft of his usual fishing-companions -was stuck, ludicrously, perilously, clinging to an overhanging willow-branch, bawling humiliatingly for help.

How old Campbell would have laughed!

Jock didn't begrudge the murdered painter his posthumous triumph; but he did hope that some living body might discover him soon.

Jimmy Fleeming and the lads, whilst shiftily corroborating his alibi for the murder, had not thereafter shown any eagerness to renew their acquaintance with him. Jock – rebel against his own class – found himself abandoned and cut off from the fraternity he'd formerly gloried in. They'd been forced to verify his alibi; but did not feel obliged to continue to acknowledge him!

So now, Jock hung desperately onto his willow-wand, like the doomed lover in _Annan Water_.

"HEY!"

"HELP!" yelled Jock, embarrassed.

Through the crashing timpani of the rain, a figure materialised; solid and comforting.

"Hold on! Ye're safe holdin' that branch! I'll be here by the bole! Stretch oot yer airm noo, an' I'll hae ye!"

Jock ventured his arm outwards towards the bank; and was more relieved than he cared to admit when his questing hand was gripped and pulled strongly towards dry land.

"Let go the withy, noo! Ye'll find gravel beneath yer feet!"

It was true! Jock could feel, intermittently, solid ground beneath his sodden waders. He essayed a giant-stride forwards; then another. Lush reeds and grass crunched beneath his feet.

The broad callused hand that gripped his wrist hauled him shorewards. His feet scrambled clumsily for purchase.

"That's grand! Come away oot! There's a fushin' hut juist tae yer left! Ye'll be fine …."

Jock allowed himself to be dragged up the river bank through dripping branches. He hardly roused until he found himself propped on a hard bench, his back pressed against rough stone walling. Someone tugged urgently at the blasted waders that were weighing him down.

They came away with an obscene sucking sound. He felt suddenly as light as air. Letting out a sensuous sigh, he collapsed across the hard bench, and closed his eyes.

"I'll be fetching ma rod and creel, " announced his rescuer, "Mebbe I'll be findin' your gear, too. Bide a while there, Mister Graham, and ye'll be juist fine!"

Jock's eyes popped open, in time to see the broad figure in the doorway.

"Do I know you?" he called, but his rescuer had vanished.

* * * *

Mister Graham! Of all the fishers in the Stewartry, it had to be him!

Charlie – determined not to lose his catch for so unworthy a cause - secured his own equipment before making a perfunctory search for Mister Graham's stuff.

He succeeded in retrieving the stout canvas bag propped against a tree-root; and Mr Graham's rod from a clump of reeds. There was no sign of either nets or creel. The weather was setting-in, and grey hissing curtains of rain obscured visibility on all sides. Charlie had no desire to make a drowned martyr of himself on Mister Graham's account; and therefore retraced his steps to the hut.

He discovered that Mister Graham had managed to kindle a small fire from the twigs and bits of flotsam left by some kindly body on the random collection of stones that approximated a hearth.

He supposed that some acknowledgement was in order, and grudgingly spoke.

"Eh, that's grand! Ye'll be dry in no time. Here's yer bag, Mister Graham, an' yer rod!"

"You're a hero, my friend! I've a thermos in the bag, and food. We'll have hot coffee, at least, and maybe a bite of bloater sandwich. Who do I have the honour of addressing? Please call me Jock, by the way – I never could be doing with this "_Mister Graham_" nonsense!"

The bastard didn't even recognise him! All that talk aboot the _airtist's eye_; and he couldn't see beyond the uniform! Well – be damned tae that! Charlie would drink Graham's coffee and eat his food; and call it quits. Whut-for did the man want to come disturbing his peace, when he might be away tae Bargrennan wi' his poaching friends?

"Charlie!" he replied shortly, submitting to having his hand wrung by the artist's raw-knuckled one; which had – he noted – a surprising strength in the grip.

"A dram with the coffee?" Graham was asking.

"Aye! That'll be welcome!"

Graham, whom Charlie could now think of neither as 'Mister' nor 'Jock', ferreted about in his bag, throwing down a pair of stout boots before retrieving a thermos and an untidy packet wrapped in newspaper. Unscrewing the thermos-cup, he poured steaming, tar-like liquid; before producing – with something of a flourish – a silver hip-flask, and transferring the better part of its contents to the brew.

"Here; take as much as you want! You've earned it. Sit down, man, sit down!"

Charlie squeezed his large frame onto the inadequate bench, and took a substantial swallow of the hot, and ruinously strong liquid. Graham, meanwhile, wrung water from the legs of his trousers before sitting gingerly next to Charlie and removing his malodorous socks. He then put them back on, and laboriously pulled the dry boots on over them.

"That's better!" he announced ebulliently, "Finished with the cup, have you? Thanks! Shame about the rest of my gear, though! I'd just caught enough for my tea. However, I suppose bread and cheese – again – won't kill me!"

"Ah, ye'll be fine!" replied Charlie, hoping the bitterness in his heart wasn't evident in his carefully neutral voice, "Joe at the Anwoth'll do ye better than that!"

"I'm not staying there any more, old son! Felt I'd rather overstayed my welcome, don't you know; so I've taken over Campbell's cottage until the lease runs out."

Charlie couldn't help himself. He yelped.

"Whut-for did ye dew sic a thing?"

"I couldn't stay on at the Anwoth!" declared Graham, clearly misunderstanding the point of the question, "That padre started looking at me as if I'm the Beast of the Apocalypse, over the breakfast porridge! Everyone thinks I led a Pure Woman up the garden path! That Smith-Lemesurier woman told Sergeant Dalziel she was my alibi for the murder, you know; after I wouldn't tell that fool of a policeman where I'd been!"

This was too much for Charlie's hard-reined temper.

"An' why did ye no?" he exploded indignantly, "F'why could ye no ha' juist taken it – me – wi' due respect, instead 'o ….."

He broke off, half terrified of his anger. Graham was staring at him, open-mouthed.

"Ye don't recognise me, do you?" Charlie finally continued, feeling obscurely defeated, "Nor would ye care aboot the trouble I'm in wi' Inspector Macpherson – an' all on your account, Mister Graham!"

Graham cleared his throat.

"My dear man, if you feel this way, why the hell did you go to the trouble of rescuing me just now?"

"I dinna see t'was you till I'd fushed ye oot!" admitted Charlie, incurably honest.

Jock Graham stared at him for a moment; and then burst into roars of helpless laughter.


	2. Fourth Herring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) There's a spoiler for who dunnit contained in this epsiode.
> 
> 2) _"like David and Jonathan"_ Gilda Farren's allegation appears in the 1975 tv adaptation of _FRH_ starring Ian Carmichael; though I can't even see it as subtext in the original!

**Title: Fourth Herring  
Fandom**: _Five Red Herrings_ by Dorothy L Sayers  
**Characters**: PC Charlie Duncan, Jock Graham (Matthew Gowan, Gilda Farren, Hugh Farren and Henry Strachan referenced)  
**Rating**: Harmless  
**Warnings**: None  
**Disclaimer**: The characters belong to whoever owns Sayers' copyright. I make no money. This is _homage_. Don't sue!

* * * *

Jock knew his behaviour was hardly conducive to extending a hand of friendship to the angry youngster; but was unable to prevent his uncontrolled hilarity. The situation was so ludicrous that even Sandy Campbell would have laughed!

"PC Duncan …" he choked out, "I am of c-course doubly – trebly grateful for your prompt action just now! Oh … don't look like that … " he went off into further paroxysms, "I feel your pain; really I do! I could even have a word with the Chief Constable if you like …..?"

PC Duncan, suddenly the self-righteous, rule-bound idiot that Jock remembered, repudiated this handsome offer with loathing.

"No? Well, alright!" Jock bit his lip hard, held onto the pain, and used it to haul himself from his unseemly mirth, "I'm sorry, Charlie! Sorry I acted like a .. that I teased you in front of Lord Peter. Sorry I laughed just now, when you'd been kind enough to help me in spite of your … better feelings. Sorry you're in trouble with your superiors on my account! If it's any consolation, none of us have come out of The Campbell Affair unscathed! Death has a nasty habit of throwing-over all the received wisdom and certainties. Please call _Pax_ now, there's a good fellow!"

He hastily refilled the thermos-cup in the proportion of ten percent lukewarm coffee to ninety percent of his dwindling supply of Jimmy Fleeming's granny's best moonshine; and held it out like a flag of truce.

The affronted PC slumped his ample shoulders, becoming Charlie once more in the process. He eyed Jock sidelong, but finally stretched out a hand like a young ham-hough and plucked the cup from his grasp.

"Shall I tell you about the others?" asked Jock persuasively, as Charlie sipped, savoured and took a much more substantial mouthful.

"Aye – though I doot t'will make me feel any better!"

"Oh, I'm sure it will! Take Mr Matthew Gowan, now! A pillar of the community, and paragon of rectitude, wouldn't you say?"

"Para of whut-itude?"

"Don't worry about it, Charlie. That's just me doing some silly sneering in book-language! You'd say Mister Gowan's a gentleman, I expect?"

"He's well-in wi' Sir Maxwell Jamieson, aye!"

"Yes. Well Gowan is now a prisoner in his own stately house; not daring to appear in public until his beard has attained a respectable length! He's forced to do his painting behind closed doors in his Japanese garden; and send his chauffeur to the art-suppliers in Dumfries for his emergency paint-tubes and canvasses. What kind of a life d'you think he's living now?"

Charlie sniggered; repressing it instantly into an unconvincing sneeze. Emboldened, Jock continued.

"Hugh Farren and Henry Strachan, formerly the best of friends, have had a serious falling-out. Neither can speak of the other without bile these days! And Farren's marriage is not so healthy either! Gilda Farren has been heard to say many things around Kirkcudbright; not the least that her husband and Strachan were once "like David and Jonathan". Forbye, it's lucky Mistress Strachan has little truck with gossip; or she'd be wondering what that might mean, and that's a fact!"

Jock peeped sideways, and had the satisfaction of noting that Charlie's eyes were round as saucers, and his mouth hung open in surprise.

"That's no fair! An' it's sad – aboot Mister Farren – after Mister Strachan kept quiet on his frien's account. Sir Maxwell suspectit him o' the murder, too!" blurted Charlie finally.

"Did he?" said Jock, pleasantly intrigued, "And who did you suspect, Charlie?" he caught sight of the blush suffusing Charlie's round cheeks, and put two and two together – "Me, I expect! Well, I daresay I deserved it! How did you make-out I'd managed it?"

Charlie took another hefty swig from the cup, and embarked.

"Well noo, I made oot ye'd hae tae dew't the morn o' Tuesday – walked frae Bargrennan tae the Minnoch. Someone saw ye, duckin' under a wall, ye ken. But …" he drooped suddenly, "I got intae an awfu' tangle ower yon ca-da-vee-ric ri-gee-dity, wi' Dr Cameron!"

Jock managed – this time – to suppress his laughter. After all, had anyone (Wimsey, for example) taken this far-fetched blether seriously, it might now be himself rather than John Ferguson, sitting in jail in Glasgow, awaiting his trial for murder.

"Did you really believe all that, Charlie, or were you just angry with me?"

Charlie directed his smouldering gaze into the depths of the fire, and thought about this.

"I was!" he admitted at last, "But I .. I … thocht I'd been sae clever wi' ma theory! Sergeant Dalziel was gey angry, afterwards."

Jock's half-formed Righteous Wrath died away in the face of the misery in Charlie's brown eyes.

"You had to prove the _rigor mortis_ followed an abnormal pattern, I expect. That was very ingenious, Charlie! I'm glad it really WASN'T me, or you'd ha' caught me that way! Listen, man – when you see Macpherson, just agree with everything he says; and then apologise! Be contrite – I mean really sorry – and he'll likely let you off with a caution. You mustn't give up, Charlie; you like being a policeman, don't you? You just need to know all the ropes – speak their language, if you like – and you'll be fine!"

"I want more frae ma profession than juist traffic an' drunks!" muttered Charlie, lapsing into mournful contemplation of the dying flames.

Jock made a sympathetic noise and silence fell in the little shelter.

"Whut's happened tae ye, then, since the murder?" asked Charlie suddenly, "Apart frae the Beast whose number is 666 at the Anwoth, I mean!"

Jock, caught in the middle of swallowing the very last of the moonshine, was taken by surprise, and choked. Charlie leaned forward helpfully to thump him on the back, knocking all the breath out of him.

"To tell truth," he coughed finally, "None of us suspects have done any proper work – painting, y'know – since the summer! In my case – well, I'm known as a portrait painter; but I never took that very seriously. You can guess by now, Charlie, that I don't take ANYTHING very seriously; not even police enquiries. So my portraits are all caricatures … making fun of the sitter, if you see what I mean."

"Aye!" Charlie sat forward, "Is't like they cartoons o' Ramsay Mac in the _Clarion_?"

"Exactly like that; only mine are more subtle – hidden, you know – so the people don't realise I'm poking fun at them! Well – I can't do that any more since Sandy Campbell died! I have to take it seriously now ….. I don't know why … and so I can't get started again! It's a pity, because all those portraits were what put food on the table, and a roof over my head! No matter! Is that a sliver of sunlight I see through the door? Maybe we should make tracks back to Gatehouse, eh?"

"Whut?" Charlie roused himself from his slump and heaved himself to his feet, "Aye, ye're right. Mister …. Jock!"

Jock, feeling he'd let out rather too much; but consoling himself with the thought that the young policeman was probably a little too far gone to remember it all, shouldered his bag and together they began the long, staggering hike back to Gatehouse.


	3. Fourth Herring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line quoted by Jock Graham - "_Never seen death yet..._" is taken from _The Mary Gloster_ by Rudyard Kipling. I can't find the reference for "_Sweet mind, pray speak thyself!_" but it's sure as hell not mine own (and I may have misremembered it too).

**Title: Fourth Herring  
Fandom**: _Five Red Herrings_ by Dorothy L Sayers  
**Characters**: PC Charlie Duncan, Jock Graham, Henry Strachan, Miss Selby and Miss Cochran, Inspector Macpherson (referenced), Bob Anderson (referenced) OFC - Mrs Lennox  
**Rating**: Brisk  
**Warnings**: None  
**Disclaimer**: The characters belong to whoever owns Sayers' copyright. I make no money. This is _homage_. Don't sue!

* * * *

PC Duncan, the hardness of whose head at drinking was well-attested by the _Lads o' Gatehouse_, found himself pondering the ways of artists many times during the following week.

For one thing, it saved him from having to think too hard about his imminent appointment at Kirkcudbright Police Station with Inspector Macpherson.

For another (and here Charlie kicked himself for the fact that this had not occurred to him before) it would be a great help if – in the event of any further outbreak of serious crime amongst the artistic communities of The Stewartry – Charlie had already made himself aware of its principal leading lights; their associates and habits.

In pursuing this laudable aim, he discovered something else.

It was, of course, true that he was built on sturdy, not to say noble lines. It was this sterling attribute (had he but known it) which had led Sergeant Dalziel to the opinion that Charlie was eminently suited to any tasks concerning local drunks and motoring offenders. The good sergeant had further fallen into the common error that equated brawn and brute strength with an accompanying weakness of intellect.

To Charlie, however, his stalwart body represented an insurmountable bar to the thrills of undercover detection work. The _personae_ of aged clergymen or Breton onion sellers were forever beyond his scope.

However, one morning in Creetown he found himself whilst on duty, within earshot of Mister Henry Strachan, and Michael Waters – newly returned from down-south. By dint of standing perfectly still – almost at full Attention – in the immediate vicinity of the Post Office doors Charlie found, to his great delight, that he was totally ignored by both artists. He might have been a statue!

The ensuing conversation informed him that Jock Graham had been quite right. Both artists admitted – slightly ashamed – to one another that neither had "got back into their stride" (as Waters put it), since the summer, whilst the matter of the murder and consequent witness-appearances, was being resolved.

Sadly, Charlie decided that he would still be unable to pull his useful disappearing act with the locals. Alas! Whether in uniform or out of it, he would bet good money on being recognised by any of Jimmy Fleeming's gang! However, with those sections of society where _Police_ evoked only visions of a uniform and not a name, he could pass virtually unnoticed!

Charlie's protracted artistic ponderings brought him back more than once, to Jock Graham's personal predicament. He was on his way to Kirkcudbright on the afternoon designated for his wigging; pedalling effortlessly over the hills above the town, when a possible solution occurred to him. He thought it carefully through as he coasted in.

There were two big snags attached to it. Firstly, Jock Graham might refuse his help outright. The man was not (unless hanging off a withy in the middle of a fast-flowing river!) someone who either sought or accepted aid. However, Charlie might risk that; and if he could just encounter Jock around the neighbourhood and persuade him, then he might be able to think of a way to get around his very personal second problem.

All in all, it was worth a try; Charlie decided, as he pulled up smartly outside the Police Station, dismounted, and hurriedly brought his thoughts back to his own immediate problems.

* * * *

Well, so that was that! Charlie heaved a sigh of relief as he wheeled his bike down the High Street past Mister Gowan's house in the gathering dusk.

Inspector Macpherson had really been very reasonable about the whole sorry business – far more so than the Sergeant, in fact. He'd administered the wigging briskly, heard-out Charlie's apology; and then invited him to sit and talk a little about the murder enquiry. Was the idea about cadaveric rigidity entirely Charlie's own notion? Well – it wasn't a bad one! Dr Cameron had expressed qualified admiration later to him, in conversation; and had offered – if Charlie liked – to take Charlie with him in the event of any further untimely or suspicious deaths so that he could learn more. Yes? Very well, then, the Inspector would speak to Sergeant Dalziel on the matter.

Charlie's initial elation was now giving way to a slight apprehension. He had, after all, never seen a corpse at very close quarters until his encounter with Mister Campbell, deceased. Suppose he became once again overcome with choking horror each time he was confronted with violent death?

Occupied with worrying at the problem, he almost ran into a pair of ladies approaching him on the pavement. Hastily, he gathered his wits about him, and wheeled his bicycle into the road.

As the pair drew abreast, he recognised them as Miss Selby and Miss Cochrane of Bluegate Close.

"Weel, Margaret, I think it's important that we turn up at Bob's tonight. He's been mighty thin of company since … the summer! I saw him earlier, and he swore he'd persuaded Henry Strachan to run over from Gatehouse; and to bring Jock with him too. We've seen nothing of either of them since ….. No chance of the Farrens, of course but …… "

They passed by, still debating; and Charlie stopped his bicycle, his earlier thoughts about Jock Graham resurfacing through the cadavers.

The upshot was that Charlie – greatly daring – slung his helmet over the handlebars, ran a hasty hand through his hair by way of toilette; and was soon knocking on the door of Mister Bob Anderson's studio where – as everyone knew – the artistic communities were wont to gather.

He had unluckily forgotten the likely effect of an unheralded appearance by a uniformed policeman at the door, under the present circumstances. The elderly woman – clearly the housekeeper – who answered Charlie's imperative knock and subsequent enquiry for Mister Graham, greeted him with a hostile –

"An' whut would ye be wantin' wi' him the noo? Canna ye leave well be, Constable?"

"T'is no aboot the case!" cried Charlie, cottoning-on too late, "T'is …" he paused uncertainly, "Pairsonal!"

"I'll inform the gentleman! Ye'll kindly wait here, Officer!" said the housekeeper with a fearsome retreat into formality.

Setting the seal on her disapproval with a final sniff, she disappeared into the depths of the house, leaving Charlie stranded in the hallway.

* * * *

Jock, successfully playing his habitual insouciance before the sparse company, gave vent to a theatrical groan when informed that The Police awaited him in the hall.

"What now?" he demanded of the room at large, "I suppose I'd better find out. Save me a dram, Bob; and don't say anything interesting until I get back to hear it!"

He swung through the door into the outer hall; and had no difficulty in identifying the bulky figure immediately. In his relief, he greeted the policeman perhaps a trifle too fulsomely.

"Charlie!" he cried warmly; and then – registering the overall deep-blue tone of his visitor, added in mock-trepidation, "Or is it PC Duncan tonight?"

"Noo, Mister … Jock! I'm off-dooty, but disna ha' the time tae gang hame an' change!" replied Charlie, "Forbye, I left ma helmet off!" he added helpfully.

Jock laughed, relaxing into informality once more.

"Unfortunately Mrs Lennox didn't catch the subtle nuance in your state of undress! You're a bit far from your home-beat here, aren't you?"

"I had tae see Inspector Macpherson." murmured Charlie.

"Oh-ho! Was it Wigging-day? Don't tell me you've come to reproach me for your ignominious exit from the Force?"

"Noo, noo! T'was grand, Mis …. Jock! I did juist whut ye tell't me! An' noo Inspector Macpherson says Dr Cameron wad be glad tae hae me along in the case of muir ca-da-vers! Only ….. "

Charlie paused, looking uncomfortable. Jock, realising the Constable's relative youth, was suddenly prompted to recall himself at that age; and experienced a minor revelation.

" '_Never seen death yet, Dickie? . . . Well, now is your time to learn!_'" he quoted softly, "You've not encountered the ranks of the dead yet, have ye, Charlie?"

"I saw Mister Campbell!" announced Charlie, adding after a moment – "Twice! Forbye, there was the time they tuk his fingerprints! T'is when ye're acquainted wi' Deceased, ye ken ….."

"Yes," said Jock soberly, "I do know! You'll need to Pretend, Charlie! Can you do that, d'you think?"

"Wull," announced Charlie, recovering tone, "I'll juist HAE tae! I'll no be passin' the chance tae advance ma profession!"

"Bravo!" Well now, why don't we drink a dram to your health?"

"Aye, that'd be gran'. But, forbye – I canna be seen drunk in charge o' ma bicycle; so mebbe juist a wee one? An' there's somethin' else ….."

"NONSENSE, Charlie!" said Jock, ignoring the last mutter, "We can get you back to Gatehouse in style. Wait here! Strachan! Hey – "

He dived back through the house-door, deaf to a faint bleat from the policeman.

"Strachan! We've room in the car for one more? And you could stick Charlie's bike on your roof-rack easily!"

The tall figure of the Gatehouse Golf Club Secretary appeared in the doorway. He did not appear entirely at ease with the proposal.

"What? Take the local bobby back with us? Are you MAD, Jock? What will people say?"

"Does it matter?" Jock felt belligerent, "Charlie's one of the best; and I'm proud to call him a friend! Upon my word, Strachan, I think if I was out with Fleeming's mob, you'd not say a word; but when I ask if you'll give a perfectly decent police constable – off-duty, mind; though sadly trapped in his uniform – a lift, you kick up an infernal row!"

"Oh, very well, very well!" said Strachan discontentedly, "And I suppose we'll get the benefit of his views on Art all the way home!"

Strachan made a _tcha!_ noise, and vanished back inside.

"Och, ye'd no need …" began Charlie, distressed.

"Never mind him – you've got your lift home! So now I insist you take a decent drink with me! We must celebrate your prospects! Come into the kitchen – it's cosy there!"

"Aye, but yon's not whut I wanted tae talk aboot …. "

Jock grasped the constable's solid arm, and drew him forward into the house-proper.

"Well, come away in; and then – _sweet mind, pray speak thyself!_ Here we are – and look – all the booze laid out on the dresser, entirely at our disposal! Sit down, man; and tell me why y're here!"

Charlie took the comfortable, saggy old armchair by the kitchen fire, and accepted a generous tumbler-full of amber liquid. He sipped judiciously, and murmured –

"Nae sae mellow as that stuff in the coffee! Noo then …… Och, I disna ken how tae begin!"

"Come on, Charlie. Just plunge in, like you did in the river last week!"

Charlie gave a nervous grin, wriggled on his protesting seat; and finally spoke.

"T'is aboot yer pentin'! The cari-cat-ures, ye ken. I wus thinkin' hoo ye micht gie yersel' a wee jog – stairt off again, so to speak!"

"I hoped you might have forgotten all my blethering!" said Jock, a trifle dismayed.

"Och, I've woke wi a clear heid every day o' my life! Forbye, t'is gey distressin' when ye remember all the skellochs ye made the nicht afore!" he gave a sly, shy smile and took a another mouthful, "But tae continue – I thoght …. Mebbe … if ye was tae pent pictures o' me … well, ye've been pokin' fun already, so .. ye culd mebbe get back intae the way o't wi' yer cari-cat-ures! An' if ye're still too serious on Mister Campbells' account – weel, t'is nae matter, ye'd be none the warse for't!"

The policeman's face was pink with sincerity; his eyes utterly free of guile. Jock, shocked dumb and immobile by an offer that took his breath away, could find no immediate response.


	4. Fourth Herring

**Title: Fourth Herring  
Fandom**: _Five Red Herrings_ by Dorothy L Sayers  
**Characters**: PC Charlie Duncan, Jock Graham  
**Rating**: Just a tiny touch of The Horrors towards the end.  
**Warnings**: See above - bit icky.  
**Disclaimer**: The characters belong to whoever owns Sayers' copyright. I make no money. This is _homage_. Don't sue!

* * * *

This wasn't going work; thought Charlie gloomily. Jock was going to say No; and from the look on his frozen features, he was mortally offended into the bargain. He hurried into speech to forestall any possible storm.

"T'was juist a thoght, ye ken. Tae show there's nae hard feelin's. I shouldna hae bothered ye wi't! I'm gey sorry tae presume …… "

"What? Oh – you think I'd be offended by such a handsome offer – probably the handsomest I've ever received? You struck me speechless, Charlie – and there's not many can say they did that! It's just …. I don't know if it's right to accept …… I shouldn't have made fun of you in the first place!"

Charlie grinned in relief.

"Gie't a try, Jock! Ye'll be feelin' sorry the noo, but mebbe ye'll get back intae the way o't when pentin' me wi' ma helmet back on!"

Jock laughed for a long time, downed the contents of his glass, and said –

"Very well, you've persuaded me! You'd better let me know your off-duty times; and then we can arrange for you to come down to the studio and I can take some preliminary sketches!"

Charlie gulped. Here was the second snag, rising up to meet him.

"Ye couldna see yer way tae pentin' me outdoors – say, by the river?" he asked tentatively.

Jock looked him over a bit doubtfully.

"Well, I COULD, of course – like Millais did; standing poor old Ruskin on a boulder in the middle of the stream! It might work! Only we'd have half the Stewartry hanging around by way of an audience. Now, I can cope with that – but what about you, Charlie?"

Charlie bit his lip. He hadn't thought of that. Now it would look as if he was having second thoughts about his offer!

"What is it, Charlie? You let out a skelloch, I remember, when I first mentioned I was living at Campbell's old place! Is it the murder? Or are you afraid of seeing Old Campbell's ghost?"

"I did!" Charlie blurted.

The slight smile died from Jock's lips, and he eyed Charlie closely.

"You're serious, aren't you? Here – have another, and tell me all about it!"

Charlie held out his glass, but entered a strict _caveat_.

"Noo! I canna dae that tae ye, Jock. Forbye, ye hae tae work and sleep there!"

"Don't let that worry you, Charlie! I wasn't afraid of Sandy Campbell quick; and I don't see why I should change my habits just because he's dead! I can always duck the ghost in the pool again, can't I?"

"Not," said Charlie soberly, "Whan he's twa weeks deid an' eleven days buried in's grave; black an' bloated wi' yon ca-da-veer-ic de-com-pos-ition, an' one eyeball doon his cheek!"

"Er – no!" replied Jock, sounding thoroughly startled, "Not then! Is that how ….?"

"I tell't ye I'd seen the corp twice!"

"You did indeed! I ought to have remembered you weren't present when it was first found! Well, Charlie, I still think you should get all this off your chest. If you're sincere about the painting offer, ye'll HAVE to come to the studio sometime. Upon my word, I think ye've begun to regret you made it; and this is your incredibly cunning way of getting out of it!"

"Noo, noo! I DID see yon ghaist, I tell ye!"

"Well – but you HAVEN'T told me, have you, Charlie? Come on, there's a good fellow! You'll feel much better afterwards, you know!"

Charlie sighed.

"Aye – but YE micht not! Weel ….. "

He swallowed the contents of his glass in one gulp, mutely held it out for a refill; and embarked upon his tale ………


	5. Fourth Herring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This episode contains massive **SPOILERS** about Whodunit, and indeed a fair bit about Howdunit from the book! You Have Been Warned!

**Title: Fourth Herring  
** Fandom: _Five Red Herrings_ by Dorothy L Sayers  
**Characters**: PC Charlie Duncan, PC Ross, John Ferguson; Jock Graham, Henry Strachan, Mrs Green, Bob Anderson, Miss Anderson, assumed cast of ~~thousands~~ about half a dozen at Anderson's studio.  
**Rating**: Creepy.  
**Warnings**: See above.  
**Disclaimer**: The characters belong to whoever owns Sayers' copyright. I make no money. This is _homage_. Don't sue!

* * * *

_On that memorable Tuesday – one fortnight exactly from the day the corpse had been discovered – Wimsey and the higher ranks of the local constabulary had taken off for the Minnoch in Campbell's car to reconstruct the false alibi._

_Constables Ross and Duncan, left behind to watch the suspect's every move, were rewarded for their overnight vigilance when Mister Ferguson finally emerged from the hospitable doors of the Anwoth Hotel at around ten, and made his way back to Standing Stone Cottages._

_They had followed him at a cautious distance. There was, after all, not one iota of Discretion or Secrecy in the sight of two bulky uniformed constables lurking in the sparse bushes in the lane, within sight of the shared entrance to the front yards._

_The artist had disappeared into the upper cottage by the time the watchers were in place; and the scene assumed its normal aspect of rural serenity._

_Ross had retired some ten yards back to answer a call of nature (and, Charlie suspected, to indulge in a crafty Woodbine) when Charlie heard the groaning, metallic creak of corrugated iron. Mister Ferguson's Garage door!_

_Charlie glanced backwards up the lane. There was no sign of the senior PC! Any minute now there would be the most unholy collieshangie, as Mister Ferguson discovered that missing magneto …….._

_He stood up slowly, watching the entrance intently and not caring that he might be revealing himself to the casual viewer._

_The skelloch that Charlie was half-expecting seemed to tear the fabric of that dull, lowering sky. In spite of being prepared for it, Charlie started, and his heart hammered in his breast._

_A dark figure came flying from the front yard. It stopped a few feet from the entrance – almost where Charlie was standing – and turned to look fearfully back over its shoulder._

_"CAMPBELL!" screamed John Ferguson, his voice distorted by mindless panic and mortal fear, "NOOOO!"_

_Time dragged to an awful slow-motion in Charlie's disbelieving mind. Behind him he heard Ross's galloping footsteps._

_Before him, the sky darkened as Ferguson pounded past him in distorted dream-motion._

_"DUNCAN! Stop him, mon!"_

_Charlie hardly registered Ross's irritated shout. He was confronted, in the unnatural twilight, by the horror Ferguson had been fleeing from, as Campbell's distended, blackened corpse waddled into the lane ……._

_A further shout from Ross caused him to tear his eyes away. Ferguson was struggling in the big policeman's grasp. Intuitively, Charlie moved to help. He blinked and looked back; but found the restored sunlight illuminating an empty lane._

* * * *

"We made oot tae Sergeant Dalziel an' the others that Ferguson foond the magneto missin' an' tried tae mak a break for the rail station. But he wasnae runnin' towards the train! He wis runnin' awa frae yon …. yon ….." Charlie babbled, his brow damp with beads of cold sweat.

Jock took a substantial sip of Bob's whisky, and forced his dry mouth to co-operate.

"And Ross saw nothing?" he asked, forcing his voice into casual neutrality.

"Och, noo! T'was juist Mister Ferguson an' masel'!" Charlie's indrawn breath sounded like a sob, "Why me, Mister … Jock? Why me?"

"Och, Charlie Duncan," broke in a new voice, "T'is naught but a touch o' Second Sight, frae yer auld Granny! Dinna fash yersel', lad! Yon Campbell wasnae there for ye; he'd come fer's killer! T'was juist yer ill-luck ye'd the eyes tae see'm!"

Jock looked round, startled, and discovered the whole household - servants, family, visitors and all – craning round the open door. The speaker had been none other than Mrs Green, his own char-woman at Standing Stone Cottages.

"Well now! A Haunted Policeman, and no mistake!" Strachan's sharp tone cut through the renewed silence, "Mind – I'm not sure I believe it; but it really would be just Campbell's style to come back and trouble everyone! And in as objectionable a state as he could manage, to boot!"

"Absolutely thrilling!" pronounced Miss Anderson, eyeing the young policeman in what Jock felt to be an overly-speculative manner, "You've a real Way with Words, Constable, and no mistake! I feel I shall hardly sleep tonight! What's you name, by the way?"

Jock, perceiving signs of distress in Charlie's expressive face, hurried to intervene.

"That was a massive compliment, Charlie!" he said, turning to look lazily up to Miss Anderson, and to wonder _en passant_ why the onset of puberty rendered young women so uncontrollably and unattractively Obvious, "This is my friend Charlie, Miss Anderson. He's off-duty in spite of the uniform; and can therefore take another wee dram, if offered!"

"Wait!" Bob Anderson's effortlessly authoritative command cut through the subdued babble around the doorway, "This calls for ma ten-year-old single-malt! Come away through, all of you! There's no call to be loitering in the kitchen doorway in this promiscuous fashion! Jock – bring Charlie through!"

There was a general exodus, under cover of which Jock went across and assisted Charlie to his feet.

"Don't worry about Strachan, Charlie! I'll make sure no-one gossips about this within earshot of your Sergeant! If it makes you feel better – I think I believe something of your story! You described putrefaction as exactly and accurately as a text-book you know! That's why they're so … impressed. Particularly -" he could not help adding, with a slight sneer, "Miss Anderson!"

"Och, Jock, she meant nae harm! I'm gey puit-oot, though, that they hear't a' ma bletherin'! D'ye think they'll ken … aboot the pentin'…?"

"We'll go and find out, shall we? I'm guessing they all turned up bit-by-bit, later, as the word about your story spread. Now listen – when is it y're next free? Wednesday morning before late-shift? Good! Then I'll meet you at the Murray Arms for a bit a breakfast at – say 8.30am? – and we'll walk back to Standing Stone Cottages together! How would that suit?"

It came as a disproportionate relief when Charlie, heaving himself up from the over-comfortable fireside chair, murmured a distracted assent.


	6. Fourth Herring

**Title: Fourth Herring  
Fandom**: _Five Red Herrings_ by Dorothy L Sayers  
**Characters**: PC Charlie Duncan, Jock Graham.  
**Rating**: Warm.  
**Warnings**: None.  
**Disclaimer**: The characters belong to whoever owns Sayers' copyright. I make no money. This is _homage_. Don't sue!

* * * *

Charlie Duncan was in love again and, not being stupid (in spite of Sergeant Dalziel's loudly-expressed opinion to the contrary), was ruefully aware of the fact. He'd been falling in love, for the most part silently, ever since his twelve-year-old's distant hero-worship of the heir to the Cally Estate (at which his auld feyther worked as Factor).

By and large, discretion had prevailed; and the objects of his affection had remained in ignorance. He'd been maybe a bit too overt in the matter of Constable Ross however, when starting at Newton Stewart Station as a rookie PC.

The sole result of Charlie's dog-like devotion was that his good nature had been taken horrendous advantage of by the senior PC; who had lost no opportunity to show Charlie disadvantageously to the Sergeant. Consequently, Dalziel now regarded Charlie as a bumbling idiot; and Charlie, well over his calf-love, had learned to keep his likes and dislikes within The Force, strictly to himself.

Charlie was older now and, he hoped, wiser; at least in the matter of showing his feelings, if not in his choice of love-object. For really, it was not very wise to have taken such a tumble over Jock Graham, who cared for nobody; and was in addition a by-word in the district for his exploits amongst _the leddies_!

So Charlie attempted manfully to repress the bubbly feeling in his chest as he accompanied Jock along the station road to the turning for Standing Stone Cottages that Wednesday morning. It was merely Jock's kindness, he told himself, which had prompted the suggestion that they meet at the pub in the bright light of morning, and approach the cottages together.

Well, Charlie wasn't ashamed to admit that he was grateful! There was something reassuring about Jock's habitual insouciance that set the thought of walking corpses at a manageable distance.

He tensed a little nonetheless, as they approached the yard gate; clutching his helmet tightly under one arm, and drawing the overcoat that concealed the rest of his uniform rather tighter across his chest. Was there, or was there not, a faint miasma, redolent of bad eggs and cheese, hanging around the shared yard?

"Alright Charlie? We'll be inside in a moment – just as soon as I untangle my keys from this fishing-twine. How the hell did that get there? I swear it wasn't in that pocket last night!" said Jock, distracted.

"Och, twine's like bindweed!" replied Charlie, concentrating hard on Jock's minor predicament.

"Here we are!" said Jock triumphantly, extracting the key and opening the front door. Come away in, Charlie! It's not much, but it suits me for now, until I return to London in a few weeks' time! I suppose I shall have to stay at least until the first hearing in Glasgow! I wish they'd get a move on with it!"

"Yes!" said Charlie hollowly.

"Go through the kitchen into the studio! We shouldn't dawdle if you only have a couple of hours before your shift!"

The studio was flooded with morning sunlight, shining through its glass roof. Charlie, dazzled, could make out only the outlines of objects. He waited until his eyes adjusted and then picked his way carefully past easels, stacked canvasses and a table piled with painting paraphernalia.

"Whaur …..?"

"Sit in the armchair over there, Charlie! Take your coat off, and make yourself comfortable. I'll want to sketch first, so you don't have to take a pose or anything. Just – talk! Act naturally!"

Charlie immediately froze into mindless immobility.

"I dinna ken what tae say!" he announced dolefully.

Jock, who had seated himself at the table, rolled up the tattered sleeves of his ancient shirt, shifted a sketch pad, and cast around for pencils. Without stopping his task, he asked casually -

"Has there been any trouble over folks overhearing your story since last week?"

Charlie frowned, not immediately noticing the sweep of Jock's hand across the pad.

"I dinna ken if t'was ma story but …. " he thought about how to explain, "Yon Mistress Green turned up at Maw's kitchen-door wi' a batch o' bannocks! Said she made them special for me – tae keep ma strength oop! An' Granny Fleeming, wha ne'er spak tae ony of us ever before, cam by wi' twa-three bottles o' her special … tonic! Forbye, even Mistress Dalziel stopped me i' the street at Newton Stewart an' tellt me she'd hear't I'd be workin' wi' Dr Cameron the noo! I canna mak it oot at a', Jock!"

"Sounds like a backstairs gossip-network to me! Mrs Green was there, remember; though the devil only knows why!"

"Och, she'd be helpin' oot Mistress Lennox wi refrashments! Her bannocks're weel liked by the gentry and airtists."

"She should set up in business, then!"

"Imph'mm!"

Silence fell, broken only by the faint scratch and swish of soft-lead pencil on paper. Charlie, half-mesmerised, watched the movement of Jock's large hand – the fingers so incongruously delicate on the shaft of the pencil; the minute touches and sudden sweeps so light on the white surface; and permitted himself a small, half-guilty daydream.

* * * *

Jock Graham let the pencil go its own road; contributing merely the odd guiding touch. By God, his sketching hadn't flowed this easily since he couldn't remember when! He only hoped the oils would co-operate just as well when he moved into the heavier medium. Perhaps there'd be time to take a quick oil-sketch of Charlie before it was time for the policeman to leave.

He glanced up at his subject, and surprised a really interesting expression on Charlie's face. Hastily, he flipped the page and started anew – just a brief head-study to capture that fascinating look! Who'd have thought so stolid a body could appear so .. so ….. Jock looked again … _spiritual_(there was no other word!)?

Could he capture the contrast when it came to the oils? The stifling formality of the dark blue uniform; and that wonderful expression? It was a real shame that Charlie used Brylcreem on his hair when on duty! Jock recalled that, in the fishing hut during the rainstorm, the fluctuating firelight had revealed fugitive gleams of reddish gold in Charlie's brown hair. He'd have liked to get those into his painting. Maybe a companion-piece, showing Charlie off-duty?

Perhaps he could postpone his return to London, if this went well? He'd never seen the Stewartry in its late-autumn glory! Could he sit it out here in Campbell's distinctly primitive little cottage though? These places were really designed for summer tenancies. Maybe he should make enquiries about whether there were any town-studios available? Or return to the Anwoth … if that damned padre had left …. and the talk had died down …..

He looked up again. Charlie's expression had altered; he was looking tense and a little unhappy.

"Are you alright? Not too tired of this? I'm … " he looked down at his work and almost gasped, "Finding this very useful, Charlie!"

"T'is ma time, ye ken!"

"Oh!" Jock felt put-out; he was just getting into his stride, after all, "Yes! Well, I suppose you must go then!"

"I'm gey sorry, Jock; but I durna get ony further intae Sergeant Dalziel's bad books, the noo!"

"No, no; of course not! Next time ye come, I'd like you just to wear your ordinary clothes. Would you do that?"

"Och aye! That'll be tomorrow evenin' then. I'll mak ma ain way here, shall I?"

"Will you dare?" asked Jock, smiling to show he meant it as a joke.

"I'll dae't!" replied the policeman, a trifle grimly.

Jock's smile faded, and he felt obscurely angry; both at himself for being clumsy, and at Charlie for taking his light comment up so seriously. And – on reflection – with bloody Sandy Campbell!

He heaved himself to his feet to see Charlie out; and watched him go out of the yard, up the lane. There was no doubt about it; Charlie didn't like that gateway at all! The set of his shoulders told Jock as much.

Damn Campbell and his suppurating cadaver!

"Sandy Campbell!" he said softly, but aloud, "Don't you dare come around here with your damned gaseous vapours and popping eyeballs, upsetting my good friend Charlie when he visits! If you do, I swear, I'll get that poisonous old fraud of a padre from the Anwoth to come down and exorcise you!"

He turned back to the radiant little studio and, after a while, forgot about possible hauntings, as he looked over his morning's work. Could he catch something of Charlie, working just from memory? There was that moment when his face came alive with its narrative at Bob's … hmmm …. Jock flipped another sheet and began again…

The light lingers long over Scottish hills in the autumn; and Jock, on completion of just one more figure-study, was amazed to discover, checking his watch, that it was almost ten in the evening!

This wouldn't do! He must eat and then retire to bed! He had a full day tomorrow; and didn't want to miss the morning light that really was the glory of this studio.

His head, however, was so full of imagery that he found sleep impossible to come by. Finally, he got up, kindled the oil lamp once again; and dashed off in his bedside notebook, an imaginative impression of Charlie sleeping. The eyelids would fall over the bright eyes; and all of Charlie's energy and wonderful potential would lie quiescent, awaiting only the kiss of the morning sun to …………

Feeling much calmer, as well as pleasingly drowsy, Jock took a final look at what he'd done, laid it on the bedside table, extinguished the lamp and lay down once again.

He must surely have dreamed (nor did he fully remember in the morning) that faint waft of stale whisky, and (as he slipped from hovering on the edge, into deeper slumber) the echo of a deep voice, like an errant breeze in a bass organ-pipe –

_"Why go wasting your time over yon lad in his uniform, Jock Graham? Go the whole hog, man – ye know ye want to, ye dirty tyke – and paint him in the nude!"_


	7. Fourth Herring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FAR less Sayers, and more _The Wicker Man_ (or at least more Pagan). The selfsame places that appear in _Five Red Herrings_ were used in the film.

**Title: Fourth Herring  
Fandom**: _Five Red Herrings_ by Dorothy L Sayers  
**Characters**: PC Charlie Duncan, Jimmy Fleeming.  
**Rating**: WEIRD.  
**Warnings**: Jimmy's even broader than Charlie!!  
**Disclaimer**: The characters belong to whoever owns Sayers' copyright. I make no money. This is _homage_. Don't sue!

* * * *

Charlie, still a trifle misty-eyed with anticipation the next afternoon, stood by the small bus terminus in Newton Stewart, on traffic duty.

Movement of vehicles being somewhat slack, and Charlie's head being firmly in the clouds, he started violently as a voice greeted him at uncomfortably close quarters.

"Chaerlie Duncan! Is't yersel' indeed, ma wee mon? An' forbye, did ma auld granny gie ye of her best moonshine whan she made her visit o'state tae yer hoose?"

Charlie recollected himself in time to recognise Jimmy Fleeming – gap-toothed, and loose both of limb and morals; eternal enemy of the Forces of Respectability and Law; greeting him in the manner of an intimate acquaintance.

Drawing himself up to his full six-foot-four (_"Ma wee mon"_ indeed!), Charlie took refuge in a cari-cat-ure of Dalziel at his most pompous.

"I hae noo knowledge nor yet commerce wi' ony illegal speerituous liquor, Jimmy Fleeming!" he announced grandly, adding – "Gin yer auld granny comes speiring roon' ma Maw's kitchie-door wi' twa-three bottles o' her famed Remedy, whut's that tae An Officer o' the Law? Forbye ma Maw is obleeged tae yer auld granny. T'was a kindly thoght!"

Fleeming laid a knobbed finger along the length of his ferret-nose.

"Ye're welcome. An' - me an' twa-three o' the lads'll be whuppin' the watter below Campbell's cottage coom the weekend! Ye'll mebbe be wishfu' o' joinin' us! Yon watter's free, whan a's said an' dune!"

Charlie stared unbelievingly at the poacher.

"F'why?" he asked finally.

"Och, Chaerlie!" replied Jimmy pityingly, "Ye saw Sandy Campbell's sperrit, ye ken! Forbye, t'is twa-three lifetimes syne we hae a Cunning-Man! An' tae be wi' Dr Cameron viewin' a' they corps, tae boot! T'is Fate!"

He looked at Charlie's thunderstruck face; and added kindly –

"D'ye noo ken ye micht hae the power tae Lay they wanderin' sperrits tae their lang-rest, ma mon? Campbell showed hisself t'ye – him that were sae fu' o' anger an' spite!"

"F'whut?"

"Och, ye're a lamb-unshorn! Ne'er tak tent o' ma bletherin', mon! Hae a gud sup o' Granny's … tonic, an' ye'll be juist gran'! Och – I'm fergettin'! Ye'll tell Jock Graham he's welcome tae the fushin' – in yer company! An' so – a gran' afternoon tae ye, Constable Duncan!"

Jimmy shambled off, weaving between traffic and passers-by indiscriminately; leaving Charlie to stare after him in perplexity.

"Och, the auld devil's drunk, as usual!" he thought comfortingly, "T'is a' doon tae ma ready tongue! Forbye, Sergeant tell't me I lack discretion; and noo the hale Stewartry's hear't o' the hauntin' at they Cottages! Howsomever - I'll nae hae truck wi' yon thing at the yard-gate the nicht! T'is Jock I'm gaun tae see, not bluidy Campbell!


	8. Fourth Herring

**Title: Fourth Herring  
Fandom**: _Five Red Herrings_ by Dorothy L Sayers  
**Characters**: Charlie Duncan, Jock Graham  
**Rating**: Warm-hot  
**Warnings**: It's all in the cause of art!  
**Disclaimer**: The characters belong to whoever owns Sayers' copyright. I make no money. This is _homage_. Don't sue!

* * * *

It was mid evening, and the sun had begun to slip slowly down the sky, by the time Charlie arrived at Standing Stone Cottages. Sergeant Dalziel had kept him waiting – quite unnecessarily in Charlie's opinion – for 'a wee word' concerning arrangements with Dr Cameron, before he was allowed to finish for the day. A puncture on the Creetown Road _en route_ back to Gatehouse made for a further delay.

Finally, Charlie had wasted even more time by getting into a state of floundering indecision in regard to what he should wear for his visit.

Jock's injunction to 'Just wear your ordinary clothes' presented Charlie with a dilemma. His wardrobe was not so extensive as to contain respectable clothing that was not either 'working uniform' or 'Sunday Best'. True, it contained a collection of ancient flannel shirts and corduroys that had originally belonged to his auld feyther, his Rugby kit (property of The Club), and an assortment of fishing-wear. In none of these could Charlie envisage himself making an important social call.

Eventually, he arrayed himself in his Sunday-Best suit (minus the waistcoat) and the Good Shirt, detachable collar, and tie. However, he cunningly topped this with his old fishing coat and hat, grabbing his rod and creel as he made his way out.

"Ah'm awa oot, then Maw!" he announced, adding (more in hope, than in any realistic prospect of need for an overnight alibi) – "Gin yon fushin's gud, I'll mebbe nae be hame the nicht!"

"Then ye'll only hae yersel' tae blame gin you wark through the day wi' nae sleep, Charlie Duncan!" replied Maw sharply, "T'is tae be hoped ye keep yon job, wi' a' yer stravaigin'!"

"Aye, Maw. G'd nicht!" mumbled Charlie, making a half-panicky getaway.

Being a little flustered still as he turned into the gate, Charlie forgot his usual apprehension; and was consequently ambushed by a creeping cold sensation just inside the yard.

He paused, looking around suspiciously. Then he recalled that odd conversation with Jimmy Fleeming.

"Is't yersel' Sandy Campbell? Forbye, I micht Lay ye!" he muttered hopefully, trying to sound resolute.

There was no response; but the cold did not abate. Charlie sighed, and waded through it stoically; attaining Jock's open front-door without further manifestation.

The living room was empty and unlit; but Charlie's call received an instant response.

"In the studio, Charlie – come away through!"

Obediently Charlie made his way across the kitchen and into the pooled light illuminating the studio; shedding coat, hat and fishing gear by the dresser _en passant_.

He found Jock sprawled like a child before the lit tortoise stove, on the studio floor. The artist was immersed in paints, crayons and charcoal sticks, and surrounded by heavy sheets of cartridge paper.

"Hello, Charlie! I've had a day-and-a-half, and no mistake! I've got a Commission, man! Official portrait of the Chief Constable, no less! Sir Maxwell dropped by in person, too. So all that work on your uniform will come in handy, eh? But now – I can go elsewhere with you, my lad! I can stop painting PC Duncan, and look at Charlie as he really is – in ordinary clothes!"

He looked up from his work, and Charlie, dismayed, beheld his radiant smile abate somewhat as he took in the glory of Charlie's Sunday-Best.

"Dear man!" he observed, "Ye're a trifle overdressed!"

* * * *

Jock had spent the day in a state of rare excitement. He almost felt as carefree as when he was young – before the Great War had changed so many lives forever.

It wasn't just the unlooked-for Commission falling happily out of the blue, but rather all the new images crowding his head. They set him to sketching with pencil, elaborating with crayon, roughing-out ideas in smudgy charcoal, and even essaying a tentative water-colour in the late afternoon.

Behind this flurry of activity, Jock was hiding away the awkward business of Asking Charlie!

For some reason, he'd awoken that morning nursing an obsession with nude figure-studies; and was of the opinion he needed to get right back to some basic Life-work. With Charlie so conveniently and willingly to hand, he would be the natural choice for model. But – how to broach the delicate topic to a young, enthusiastic, but probably naïf officer of the law? More in hope than in real confidence, Jock had lighted the stove to keep the temperature comfortable.

Now, eyeing Charlie, crestfallen in the inappropriate Best Suit, Jock's initial irritation gave way to speculation. Here was a chance!

"Don't worry, Charlie!" he said briskly, scrambling up from the floor, "All we need to do is take off the jacket, the collar and tie; and undo a few shirt buttons! Here – let me help you!"

"I hae'na onything else decent tae puit on!" Charlie was explaining earnestly, as he pulled off the jacket, and stood patiently whilst Jock got to work on the tie, the stiff collar-studs, and the top few buttons of the shirt.

"I'm sorry, Charlie; I should have made it clear that 'indecent' would be perfect!" laughed Jock; and then, inspired by that word to seize the moment, plunged ahead – "In fact, let's go the whole hog and take off the lot! I'd like to …. " he faltered, his initial dash and impetus suddenly deflating before Charlie's dropped jaw and wide eyes, " .. to do a few nude studies – for a Classical Roman composition, ye understand!"

Charlie swallowed audibly.

"Nekkid, ye mean?"

"Yes!" replied Jock recklessly.

The wide serenity of Charlie's brow furrowed briefly. His eyes grew blank, whilst his round face slowly coloured-up. Jock saw him remember to breathe; and braced himself for the inevitable refusal.

"A'richt!" said Charlie equably, "Is theer ony place I can gae tae ….?"

Jock's heart gave a great leap. Perfection piled upon perfection! What a day this was turning out to be!


	9. Fourth Herring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1.This is an extremely short part, just a short meditation by Charlie, setting a few things up before ... well something a bit heavy.  
> 2\. Sergent Dalziel's first name. Sorry - couldn't resist. I've given him the same name as the character played by Warren Clarke in _Dalziel and Pascoe_.

**Title: Fourth Herring  
Fandom**: _Five Red Herrings_ by Dorothy L Sayers  
**Characters**: Charlie Duncan, Jock Graham  
**Rating**: Warmer-hot  
**Warnings**: Nudity and pictures  
**Disclaimer**: The characters belong to whoever owns Sayers' copyright. I make no money. This is _homage_. Don't sue!

* * * *

Charlie tiptoed back into the studio, clad only in a nervous smile, and a disreputable, paint-stained towelling bathing-robe, which he suspected had once been the property of Sandy Campbell, deceased.

What lover could possibly by-pass the chance of showing himself off to The Beloved? Charlie, terrified by his own lack of shame, had stripped rapidly in the dusk of the living room.

Sternly addressing the bright, gaseous flame of hope that flared and hissed inside him, he had informed it that _airtistic_ gentlemen such as Jock Graham would take exactly the same note of his palpitating pink flesh as they would the Isles of Fleet!

He discovered that Jock had taken advantage of his absence to pull the dust-covers from a moth-eaten studio-couch, cover it with a sweep of dusty velvet, and set up an easel with a primed canvas. He had also, much to Charlie's relief, pulled the curtains across the window.

His worst nightmare retreated. It had concerned Sergeant and Mrs Dalziel on a rare weekend off-duty, standing before a huge floor-to-ceiling painting of a nude Roman with indistinguishable features, displayed at the Kelvingrove Gallery in Glasgow. He could hear Mrs Dalziel's refined voice pronouncing with preternatural perspicacity – _"Och, Andy, yon PC Duncan strips doon weel, does he no …?"_

"There ye are, Charlie! Good!" Jock's cheerful greeting pulled him back to reality, "Just take off the robe, there's a good fellow; and lie face-down! Yes, that's right! Now – prop yourself up on one elbow, and take a good look at these sheets of paper. Make it look as if you're deep into studying them!"

Charlie, receiving a bundle of stiff papers, propped himself on one elbow as requested, and reducing the pages to order on the couch beside him with one broad hand, looked down at them.

They were all sketches of him! In the topmost, he sat stiffly to attention in his uniform, eyes huge and wary; whilst by complete contrast (Charlie reprehensibly peeked at the bottom of the pile) in the final one, he was asleep! Surely he hadn't dropped off …..?

Forgetting the current unusual circumstances, Charlie absently hiked one knee up, settled his under-elbow comfortably into the soft firmness of the cylindrical bolster, and flipped the sheets back and forth with his free hand.

Och, t'was wonderful how Jock had worked, without Charlie realising anything! Here was one that had caught him explaining about Mrs Green's bannocks; and this …. Charlie blushed. That would have been his illicit daydream! It almost looked as if Jock knew ……

He looked up and encountered the concentrated beam of Jock's bright blue stare.

Charlie's generous mouth curved into an involuntary smile. His eyes told their tale without him realising what exactly it was that he'd given away …….


	10. Fourth Herring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive me if this chapter does not pan out as you might have hoped or expected. It was always meant to happen this way; and it had to be, in order that the rest should follow.
> 
> The quote by nameless art critics is taken from _Five Red Herrings_.
> 
> The centre and core of this part was inspired by Ian McKellen's performance in _Gods and Monsters_

**Title: Fourth Herring  
Fandom**: _Five Red Herrings_ by Dorothy L Sayers  
**Characters**: Charlie Duncan, Jock Graham  
**Rating**: Burning  
**Warnings**: See notes - angst.  
**Disclaimer**: The characters belong to whoever owns Sayers' copyright. I make no money. This is _homage_. Don't sue!

* * * *

Jock had seized the moment, and was risking laying his composition direct onto canvas with no preliminary sketches. After all, with Charlie so willing, it seemed best to make the most of the opportunity.

The silence in the studio was broken only by the faint splatter of the stove, and an intermittent sharp rustle each time Charlie turned a sketch over. Jock was pleased with himself over that little ploy! Charlie would never have become so absorbed had he been supplied with the latest _Gallovidian_ or a copy of the _Glasgow Clarion_.

Look at him now – sprawled mother-naked on that velvet (its dull russet setting off the fugitive red-gold in his hair, just as Jock had anticipated). With one arm draped across the bolster, one knee cocked at the precise angle to preserve modesty, Charlie was an absolute ringer for _Catullus Meditating on Lesbia's Sparrow_. Really though, he had the physique for a Young Hercules. Maybe next time … if Jock could coax Charlie into an upright stance, and something approximating a lion-skin ….

He added a touch more shadow with charcoal, and glanced up again to fix the precise line of the arm holding the papers. As he did so, Charlie raised his head from a close perusal, looked straight at him, and smiled.

Jock's hand reached for his pad. He'd begun a sketched record of that smile (_"Adonis Awakening"? "Actaeon Entranced"? "Heracles Looks First Upon Hylas"?_), when its import, and the unintended message in Charlie's brown eyes struck him like flying shrapnel.

Not new inspiration after all! His work these last few days had been prompted by Charlie's care – Charlie's LOVE; and – Oh God! – by his own response to it!

He'd have to leave! He'd sworn this was never going to happen, ever again! Not after that time he never thought of, nor ever revisited … not ….

The pencil clattered to the floor and the pad slithered after it. Jock closed his eyes against Charlie's smile; and tried to think resolutely about his last unpaid tax demand.

It was too late. Memory, like tropic bush-fire, swept across his mental landscape, searing it black and barren, smudged with the smoke of dead trees; brambled high with barbed wire.

Against his will he looked; knowing full well what he'd see.

Roddie Dartree hung like a crucified doll amongst the tangle, stark upon the skyline; screaming his life out breath by breath. Damn them – they hadn't let him go back ……

And Jock had spent the rest of his time, between intervals of shooting and being shot at in return; watching that thing which had once been warm and alive in his arms, bloating, rotting and withering until, when they'd pulled out of there and – incredibly – the War was over, there were only skeletal fingers still stretched beseechingly behind him.

Jock had left that place forever - that special Hell reserved for those who had dared to answer the soulless, ear-splitting terror of Mechanised Death with their puny love. He had girded around him his invincible panoply of insouciance; and armed only with a handful of practical jokes and his raw talent, had gone back to The Slade and (a trifle late, a trifle older than other students, though behaving just as rampantly), had finished his course.

He'd then quarrelled fatally with his titled grandfather (_"Ye're no kin of mine, nor o' the bluid o'Claverhouse, with yer Bolshevik views, sir! Macfie! Show this … pairson oot!"_), and lived the life of a feckless rover.

He'd savoured it all, of course – the whisky, the poachers, the _leddies_, the halfway-pastiches he produced so easily – but his abbreviated art could not lie. _'Mr Graham is still fumbling for an individual style!_' – critics told him regularly. He had not dared pour his soul where by rights it should be.

He opened his raw blue eyes and beheld Charlie, sitting bolt upright, staring at him in frightened concern.

"Charlie! Oh, GOD!" he said, on a discordant note that broke in the middle.

Charlie rose like the surge of a spring tide and pulled him clumsily into a womb-like embrace. Jock, drowning, clung on for dear life.


	11. Fourth Herring

**Title: Fourth Herring  
Fandom**: _Five Red Herrings_ by Dorothy L Sayers  
**Characters**: Charlie Duncan, Jock Graham  
**Rating**: Contemplative  
**Warnings**: A little angst.  
**Disclaimer**: The characters belong to whoever owns Sayers' copyright. I make no money. This is _homage_. Don't sue!

* * * *

Charlie, his arms full of someone he hardly recognised any more, responded to the crisis, even though he had no idea of the cause.

This was very bad; he thought. Jock was so tense that he felt he was clasping a marble statue, except for the tremors. He was at a loss as to how such symptoms should be addressed, but realised that Silent Sympathy would not answer in this case.

So he began to talk, using that special tone he reserved for the small frightened weans he occasionally liberated when they were set-upon by groups of older boys.

"Ye'll tak a deep breath the noo! Ye're safe wi' me. Shall ye tell me whut happened? Noo? Weel – nae matter!" he remembered that Jock might have seen his own indiscreet smile, and added – "Forbye, there's nae need tae fash yersel' aboot me an' ma feelin's. I'll nae be puittin' masel forward wi' ye, Jock! I ken fine how tae hold masel' in! An' I'm no feared o' yon Campbell the noo! T'was juist – weel, like I said – t'is whan ye're acquainted wi' Deceased …."

He stopped as Jock jerked in a whistling breath against his chest.

"Worse – worst of all – when ye LOVED Deceased, Charlie!"

"Whut???? Ye mean ye an' Campbell ….?"

"NO!" Jock sounded angry now, "My …. my .. friend - battle-comrade .. . ach, ye're too young to understand, Charlie!"

"Yon bluidy War!" exclaimed Charlie, enlightened, "It got ma Auld Feyther in the end! I'm gey sorry, Jock – whut was I aboot, remindin' ye ….?"

"Charlie! My dearest fool! How were ye to know? No – don't move! I haven't felt so safe since I can't remember when!"

Charlie's heart thumped so hard that he was afraid Jock, pressed tight against his naked torso, would notice! And … that wasn't all he might notice either! He tried to shift infinitesimally, without disturbing Jock.

"I shouldn't call ye fool, though," Jock announced suddenly, "It's me that's been the fool – not seeing what was right under my nose this past week or so. I'm an arrogant fool too, Charlie. I thought it was my own genius, rather than what you and I had been building up between us!"

"T'IS yer ain genius!" replied Charlie gruffly, "I 'spec' the … other thing .. the love, was juist lettin' it oot! Unpluggin' it, sae tae speak!"

"Like a blocked drain?"

Jock started to laugh, then hiccup. Charlie, knowing now where this was going, since Maw did it on occasion when he'd stupidly cracked a joke that reminded her of Da, shifted his hold so as to bring one hand up and cradle the back of Jock's head, and wondered how to cope with the wetness soaking into his chest-hair.

It took about ten minutes for Jock to cry himself out. Christ! Ten minutes for a whole war! thought Charlie. Too long; and not long enough by a long way! He must be ready for more of this if …..

The rasping sobs had died down now; and Jock felt boneless under his hands, although an occasional tremor still shook him. The artist moved his head fractionally to one side, and settled a wet cheek and slightly rough chin back against Charlie. Charlie guessed he was feeling embarrassed, and took a quick breath ready to forestall the inevitable muttered apologies. Jock, however, cleared his throat, and surprised him.

"Well, Charlie, I suppose that was better out than in! Rough on you, though, old fellow. _Sorry_'s a wee bit inadequate isn't it? And you naked as a bodkin all the while! I'm not advertising myself very well as a lover, am I?"

Charlie risked a small chuckle.

"Aw, Jock, ony thing ye dae's fine ba me! Forbye, I ken naethin' o' how we should be gangin' wi' this love-thing! Ye'll hae tae lesson me …"

"What?" Jock shifted to look at Charlie's face, moving out from his slackened grip, "Ye're inexperienced still? And ye so full of worldly wisdom! How …?"

"Och, conseeder a moment," Charlie hesitated; and then, greatly daring, added – "Ma love!" he waited, but there was no demurral or explosion of wrath, so he went on - "PC Duncan o' the Stewartry Diveesion cannae BREATHE wi'oot half o' Gatehouse an' the hale o' Creetown tellin' ain-anither! I ken fine ma ain desires an' loves; t'is juist the way o't! But TELLIN'? Nae tae be thoght upon – till I find a body I can trust!"

"And that's ME? Ye're MAD, Charlie Duncan!"

"Aye!" replied Charlie simply, "Forbye, t'is love, ye ken."


	12. Fourth Herring

**Title: Fourth Herring  
Fandom**: _Five Red Herrings_ by Dorothy L Sayers  
**Characters**: (at last I can put that **/** in place!) Charlie Duncan/Jock Graham  
**Rating**: Exceedingly warm  
**Warnings**: First-time; awkwardness  
**Disclaimer**: The characters belong to whoever owns Sayers' copyright. I make no money. This is _homage_. Don't sue!

* * * *

Jock wiped his nose across his sleeve, and attempted to pull himself together. He felt woefully inadequate after Charlie's sterling efforts on his behalf: as pink and naked inside as Charlie was, outside.

Not that this seemed to bother Charlie at the moment; thought Jock. He appeared serenely unworried – or maybe unaware – that he was sporting a generous erection.

Looking at that, Jock forgot his inner, newborn-rawness. If what Charlie said was true – and he was incurably honest – then this would be his first time. It thus behoved Jock to make it as memorable as possible, given the rather awkward circumstances.

"Y'know, Charlie, ye look bloody wonderful!" he spoke his thought; and then paused to add a small joke, "If the ladies of Newton Stewart saw ye doing traffic duty as ye are now, there'd be no holding them, believe me!!"

Charlie looked briefly alarmed; and then a slow grin spread across his face; transforming it.

"An' ye'd ken a' 'boot the leddies o' Newton Stewart, eh, Jock?"

"Well … maybe! But now I'd sooner know all about the Constabulary of Newton Stewart! Are ye ready for that, Charlie?"

"Bin ready syne yon pairty o' Mister Anderson's!"

The wonderful thing about Charlie was that he could make a body laugh! Jock hooted and lunged; grabbing Charlie's wide shoulders, and standing half on tiptoe to capture his mouth in the midst of the laughter.

Charlie's lips parted to his insistence; but what might have been yielding was – to Jock's mind – gracious acceptance and welcome.

Jock felt Charlie's arms move to encircle his waist; and his mouth travel, rasping along his jawline to his ear.

"Ye've made yer stoojo unco warm!" remarked Charlie breathily, "Sae whaur's the need fer a' these claethes? Ye micht gang juist as nekkid as a' they Romans yersel', Mister Airtist! Forbye – I've dreamed ye nekkid these long weeks! T'would be a kindness in ye tae show how near the Truth I cam'!"

It was at this instant that Jock finally _experienced_ what he felt for Charlie – that pure vein of true-gold which runs through all the secret ways of a person – body, soul and lifetime.

He might have laughed hysterically; or he might have sung a paean (very badly). In fact, he simply did what Charlie had asked.

Pulling free of the embrace, he tugged his disgraceful shirt over his head and discarded it; then set-to on the luggage strap that was doing duty for a belt, and dropped flannels and underwear in one extravagant gesture. His rope-soled deck-shoes went with them.

Dark hair tangled and flame-blue eyes wild, Jock faced his lover with all his secrets plain to view.

Charlie ignored the visible signs of war-service, his gaze focusing on Jock's own unfurling erection. When he did speak, it was nothing to the point.

"Och, ye need some feedin' up! D'ye no' eat noo' ye're carin' fer yersel'?"

"Ye sound like my granny!"

"Nivver tell me she saw ye ….?" began Charlie, sounding alarmed, but with a broad grin.

Jock rushed Charlie, intending to Rugby-tackle him down onto the couch; but he was caught and held close. Skin to skin for the very first time.

"Och, t's wonderfu'! I'd noo ideea ither folks' skin waur sae soft!" observed Charlie, "Did ye want me on yon couch?" he added innocently.

"I want ye everywhere and anywhere, Charlie; but for now the couch will do!"

Since no one wanted to let go or untangle themselves, there was a somewhat undignified scramble before Jock found himself cock-to-cock with Charlie, sprawled atop the comfortable length of his generous torso.

He moved cautiously, adjusting his cock more evenly with Charlie's erection, insinuating himself by degrees between Charlie's thighs and planting his knees against the rough fabric of the couch, so that he could balance and move more easily.

Jock was reasonably tall – five-eleven – but Charlie topped him by an easy five inches. If he slid one hand between their tightly-pressed bodies and encircled the pressed length of both their cocks in his fist, his head would just reach Charlie's shoulder, or tuck beneath his chin. He settled, and made a tentative thrust upwards; half into his own hand, half against the silken length of Charlie's cock.

Charlie sighed like a breeze through a birch grove. One brawny arm encircled Jock's shoulders, whilst his free hand settled along Jock's jaw, tilting his face for Charlie's sloppy, enthusiastic kiss.

Jock tried to build the pressure as slowly and steadily as he was able; but even so it was over very fast. Charlie climaxed first with a surprised and joyful bellow. Jock wasn't far behind him; coming with an explosion that was almost agonised. Strange that so simple a procedure should produce such intensity!

He would have moved to find something to mop up with, but Charlie's arm lay heavily across his shoulders. The younger man's eyes were still closed, his breathing now deep and even. Jock wondered if he was asleep.

"Am I illegal the noo, Jock?" Charlie's words rumbled suddenly beneath his ear, "If soo, t'waur warth't!"

Jock's heart lurched. He'd forgotten that Charlie was technically a Guardian of the Law, from whom such practices were sedulously concealed.

"It's buggery they usually get ye for!" he said carefully, "So - as neither of us has done that yet ……"

He shifted from beneath Charlie's slackened arm without completing the comment; and surprised him in mid-blush, his face as deep-crimson as the Apple of Eden! Charlie, his eyes sliding away under Jock's enquiring look, coughed.

"Ye didnae .. wi' yer man .. before?"

"Charlie!" Jock made a discovery, "I believe ye've had thoughts about it yourself! Well, well!"

He chuckled, and now, amazingly, found it quite easy to answer Charlie's question –

"And no, we didn't. We were in the trenches, Charlie! There were thousands of poor bastards living and dying around us. You couldn't fart without the whole company knowing about it! The best we could manage, usually, was a quick grope in the dark."

Jock was relieved now to have a task in hand. He found a relatively clean paint-rag, ran it under the tap in the kitchen and returned, sliding down next to Charlie once more for the prosaic business of mopping up.

"Och, t'is sad! I'm gey sorry I asked …" Charlie homed-in on the long white scar that ran across Jock's torso, "Does this still trouble ye? T'was sae close …."

"Bayonet cut! It caught me broadside-on," replied Jock, "The round one up here was a bullet of course. But the REAL bullet – the one with my name on it – was taken by Roddie …"

"Nonsense!" whispered Charlie, like the distant hum of bees, "Ye're here, Jock. T'was nivver yer bullet! Yon enemy kill't yer man – nae yersel at a'!"

Charlie pulled him close and dipped his head. Jock felt the soft touch of lips trailing over the scar like moths and cool moonshine. Everything was going to be alright!

He let himself be gathered up and, curled tightly around Charlie on the inadequate couch, was soon asleep.


	13. Fourth Herring

**Title: Fourth Herring  
** Fandom: _Five Red Herrings_ by Dorothy L Sayers  
**Characters**: Charlie Duncan/Jock Graham, Ghost (Sandy Campbell)  
**Rating**: Whimsical  
**Warnings**: Not too frightening or squicky - honest!  
**Disclaimer**: The characters belong to whoever owns Sayers' copyright. I make no money. This is _homage_. Don't sue!

* * * *

The random concatenation of ectoplasm and _Immortal Diamond_ that might be said now to comprise Sandy Campbell, was pulled into actual manifestation only by the magnet of human emotion.

Hot rage attracted it most strongly; but Guilt made a pretty good effect too. Thus the deliquescing shape which had shown itself to Ferguson reflected faithfully the murderer's morbidly exact imaging of a two-week old corpse.

The formless thing patrolled Ferguson's studio where its body had died; the shared yard; and the disputed pool on the River Fleet, where it had manifested an unwelcoming miasma a couple of times to drive off Jimmy Fleeming. It could approach the windows of what had once been its own home only when the youngster who had inadvertently seen it was visiting; or when someone actually addressed it direct – as the youngster himself had done just now on his way in.

Thus, on that momentous evening, it drifted gleefully over the glass-roofed studio, drinking in and thriving on the rich cocktail of turmoil and ecstasy that had been flowing therefrom. As it fed, it became slowly more and more conscious of itself and its condition.

Since it now had eyes to see, and a substantially-restored memory, it recognised the couple lying entwined immediately below it on what had once been its own studio-couch.

Knowing, now, that it was somehow dead (that part remained cloudy still, in its insubstantial brain), it felt very little resentment at this usurpation. However, the spirit of mischief that had once characterised a much younger Sandy Campbell (and which had later turned sourly into aggression and spite) impelled the ghost to project its voice towards the youngster, who still lay wakeful, cradling his sleeping lover in his arms.

_*Is that Jock Graham ye have there? A bit of a turnaround for him, is't not? Him being so popular with the leddies!*_

* * * *

Charlie, drowsing in remembered bliss, felt the ghostly wake-up call through all his nerve-endings. He clasped Jock closer, cradling the dark head between his shoulder, neck and jaw to hide the bright sleeping eyes from any intrusion.

Then he opened his own eyes and looked straight upwards.

Against the heatless moonbeams a shape was floating lightly over the sparkling glass. Charlie could make out (insubstantial as the talking pictures when someone carelessly walked in front of the projection-booth) the form of a young red-haired soldier dressed in a filthy khaki uniform, whose cap sported the colours of the Black Watch.

_*Is that Jock Graham ye have there? A bit of a turnaround for him, is't not? Him being so popular with the leddies!*_

Charlie directed his arrowed Thought back at the apparition.

_*Aye! An' as tae the leddies, we're warkin' on't!*_

An echo of racous, suggestive laughter answered him.

_*I've met ye before, ha'n't I? I was meant for yon Ferguson – murdering bastard! – but ye saw me in all my rotting glory too! It's a heavy thing for a young'un. My apologies!*_

Charlie boggled. Mister Campbell – apologising! Wonders would never cease!

_*Och, I hae'a broad back, ye ken! Forbye, I'll live!*_

_*Aye, ye'll live to whip the water in my pond – I've seen ye at that - and fornicate on my studio couch! And – if they don't drum ye out and bang ye up for sodomy - ye might make a decent Chief Constable one of these days, I shouldn't wonder! But me now! I've been an outsider all my life; and now I'm Outside even that! Where's a poor spirk like me to go now, Policeman? Tell me that!*_

In the end; thought Charlie; it was unbelievably easy! He put all his will – his bright good-will – into the thought.

_*Gang hame, Sandy Campbell! Gang tae yer lang-rest the noo!*_

The spirit put its head to one side. Charlie could see two of the stars of Orion's Belt trembling through its eyes.

_*Well now! Go home, is it, ye whippersnapper? And if I do? Very convenient for ye all, I don't doubt! Your lover takes my house, and that ferrety poacher my pond! But who'll remember me, eh? The name of Sandy Campbell will die on the harsh winds of the future!*_

*Noo!* thought Charlie, well into his stride now, _*Yer airt'll tak ye intae the future! Forbye, they're makin' a braw show in London – an exhibeetion, ye ken – o' a' yer pentin's!*_

The ghost emitted a cracked hoot of laughter, like an owl on a whisky-binge.

_*I always said ye've to be dead to achieve fame!*_

It paused; and the young face – not yet lined by temper and war nor dewlapped by drink – turned upwards to look away from the habitations of men, into the fathomless midnight sky, all the airy pathways marked and delineated by stars.

_*Ye win!*_ it sighed, _*I'm tired of this place! Maybe I'll find a heaven of cool blues and greens – a celestial sitting-room of Mistress Farren! A bargain, young fellow – ye'll do something for me, or I swear I'll come back and haunt ye at bed, at board and in Jock Graham's studio!*_

*Whut?* asked Charlie suspiciously.

_*Don't worry – it's nothing beyond your scope, my lad! Get yourself down to London and see my work! Ye're grown and shaped in this landscape, boy! Now go and see it with an outsider's eye! Will ye do that for me?*_

Charlie had no idea how he could encompass such a journey. He could ask Jock, he supposed … what about Sergeant Dalziel? He felt the ghostly derision and impatience above him; and plunged.

_*Aye. I'd like that! Gin t'is possible, I'll gang tae yer pentin's!*_

*MAKE it possible, or I'll haunt ye! Promise me, now?*

*I promise!* sighed Charlie, _*Noo will ye gang?*_

There was no reply. The image in the glass above him shook and wavered like a reflection in running water. The outlines unravelled; and the shredded ghost fell slowly upwards into the sky. The moonlight blinked briefly as it scudded past, and then shone out brighter than before.


	14. Fourth Herring

**Title: Fourth Herring  
Fandom**: _Five Red Herrings_ by Dorothy L Sayers  
**Characters**: Charlie Duncan/Jock Graham, Jimmy Fleeming, 2 OMCs, Mrs Green  
**Rating**: Conclusive  
**Warnings**: Possible poaching activity  
**Disclaimer**: The characters belong to whoever owns Sayers' copyright. I make no money. This is _homage_. Don't sue!

* * * *

At a respectful distance away up the river-bank from the disputed pool, two figures appeared, and settled behind some bushes where they waited uneasily.

"Och!" said Wattie after a while, "Whut's the point? Forbye, there's plenty fushin' up by the dams or in the Dee - braw salmon tae be had theer; or in Bargrennan, ta'en free frae yon Earl o' Galloway! Whut-for maun we haver aroon' yon ill-faured pool?"

"Hssssh!" enjoined Wullie o' Kirconnel, who was a poacher of very few words.

He cocked an ear. Sure enough a furtive rustle from the darkened wood announced the appearance of Jimmy Fleeming, his face adorned with a wide grin.

"He's done't! Auld Granny waur richt! Oor Wee Mon's sent Sandy Campbell aboot's business sure and surely! Ye nivver saw sic a bricht moon! Forbye – whut're we waitin' fer? Theer's fush an' tae spare the noo!"

Wattie gave a carefully-stifled whoop, and rose to break cover somewhat precipitately.

"Whisht wi' yer stravaigin'!" ordered Jimmy in a fierce whisper, "Forbye – ye'll mind that e'en gin yon pool's free-fushin', t'is resairved fer Oor Wee Mon at sic a time he wants!" he sighed, "An' fer yon Jock Graham, I s'pose! Him bein' … a privileeged pairson, so tae speak!" he coughed uncomfortably.

"Aye, o' coorse! Soory!" muttered Wattie, embarrassed.

"Mind – theer's neither chick nor child tae bother us the noo!" observed Jimmy, "We micht ... juist … test the waters for them twa …?"

Wullie grunted approvingly, and the three proceeded on their way.

* * * *

It was 4.30am, and the sun was just topping the trees in a glory of crimson and rose, as Charlie crept from the cottage arrayed in his crumpled Sunday-best and waders. He was desperately hoping that – within the short span of two hours – he'd be able to catch enough fish to make some sort of breakfast (since Jock's larder was empty), as well as providing a realistic alibi for Maw.

His brain overrode his hopeful and dancing heart, to inform it that there was no chance whatsoever! His life of exciting subterfuge was beginning badly!

At 6.30am he had to admit defeat. Apart from a couple of infant troutlings, Charlie had been unlucky. He wondered if it would be worth returning to Jock empty-handed, with no alibi-breakfast to explain his early presence at Standing Stone Cottage.

He reeled-in the line, shouldered the rod and turned to heft the empty creel from the ground a short distance behind.

The solid weight of it alerted him. He stopped, stooped and peered inside.

Whilst the two little brown trout, neatly joined by a wire through the gills, could easily have been found on the Fleet, the large salmon, nested carefully in damp grass, could only have come from the Dee below Kirkcudbright, or – Charlie's heart sank – the Earl's pool by Bargrennan.

However, it solved the immediate problem; and Charlie silently thanked whatever kindly body had provided so convenient and convincing an alibi.

Striding back up the lane and re-entering Jock's cottage, he stopped short inside the door at the sight of Jock – bleary-eyed and haphazardly dressed – confronting Mrs Green in the front parlour. The Charwoman carried a large basket over one arm.

"…… told ye before, Mrs Green, I can't afford cleaning help any more ...!" Jock was mumbling.

"Och, t'is nae trouble, Mister Graham; an' I'm in the way o' comin' here, sae tae speak! Noo – I've brocht a few fresh bannocks, an' butter frae the farm. An' the jam waur made by Leddie Jamieson in pairson fer oor last sale o' wark. An' guid mornin' tae ye, Constable Duncan! Ye'll mebbe be able tae help Mister Graham wi's breakfast the noo! I'll be in Mister Ferg … the ither cottage a while! The Estate wud like it cleaned noo t'is … safe tae do't!"

She smiled beatifically at Jock's dumbstruck face, and withdrew.

"What the hell was all that about?" demanded Jock.

Charlie who had, in his usual deliberate fashion, been putting two and two together; and finally making sense of that mad conversation with Jimmy Fleeming the other day, smiled at his lover's bewilderment.

"Och, t'is juist oor way of hospitality hereabouts, Jock!" he explained soothingly, "They bannocks shuld be eaten while they're hot!"

"They smell delicious," agreed Jock, "Did ye have any luck, Charlie?"

"Aye – juist enough fer twa! I must be awa soon gin I'm tae report fer dooty in ma proper uniform. Forbye – I ha' a little time tae spare … "

Putting down creel and rod, he carefully closed the cottage door.


End file.
